Dark Souls: The Wayfarer Book 1
by AshenShroom
Summary: The legend of Alva the Wayfarer, who sought a cure for Saint Serreta's curse, and the witch Zullie who desired only to ruin him. This first book details the early days of Alva's quest.
1. Chapter 1

**Dark Souls: The Wayfarer**

 **Book 1**

Chapter 1

An uncharacteristic silence had settled upon the cathedral's courtyard. Where usually the subdued chatter of acolytes could be heard there was only the murmur of the wind and the rustling of the saint-trees. Besides Alva and the young maiden, the only souls in sight were the guards positioned at each entrance, halberds gleaming in the midday sun.

Saint Serreta, chosen maiden of the goddess Caitha and consecrated saint of the church of Carim, knelt before the fountain which occupied the centre of the yard, cowl pulled over her head. She grasped her sacred chime in both hands and mouthed prayers to her goddess.

Alva stood in silence, several feet behind her. His breathing was soft, as had been his footsteps as he entered the courtyard, for he was keen not to disturb his lady's worship.

He had been sparring in the cathedral's barracks when one of the Saint's guards had approached him, bidding him visit the maiden in the courtyard alone. Typically, such a disturbance would only prove to irritate him and the messenger would be dismissed, but an invitation to commune with Caitha's chosen was something even Sir Alva could not reject.

Serreta finished her prayer and rose to her feet. She did not turn from the fountain, but Alva knew she was aware of his presence. He stepped closer.

"Your holiness." he issued, his voice even.

"Sir Alva," her voice, likewise even, was as clear and soft as a maiden's chime, "so glad am I that you could meet me here. I have urgent need of a soldier such as thyself, and I am told that of all Carim's holy knights you are the most worthy."

"Your words are kind, your holiness." Alva was well aware of his reputation. It was well-earned- he had fought in Carim's army for a decade and survived countless campaigns before entering into the service of the cathedral. While he would never boast, he could not deny his worth.

"The matter which I wish to divulge to you is known only to myself and to the Archbishop. Together we have agreed that this must not become common knowledge. Knowing this, do you swear that the wrong ears will never hear these words from you?"

"I swear it, your holiness."

For several moments the maiden and the soldier stood in silence, gazing at the statue in the fountain. A slender woman, clad in a simple gown, both hands clasping her face. Clear water ran between her fingers and into the wide basin which encircled her. Serreta turned to face Alva.

The right half of her face was rotten, green, her eye was pure white. The right side of her mouth drooped very slightly, not enough to slur her words but enough to mark her with a permanent grimace. Her golden hair looked brittle, and patched were missing from her scalp. Alva could not prevent his sharp intake of breath at the sight. Serreta, however, retained a composed, authoritative stance.

"The brand appeared upon my flesh not a week ago," she began, "I consulted the Archbishop at once, with terror in my heart. He told me that nobody within the cathedral may hear of this, lest panic spread throughout Carim. He told me that the chosen maiden of Caitha must not appear to carry an affliction of man."

"I had heard rumours. They say that the brand of the Curse has been sighted in the eastern lands… Forossa, and Mirrah too. But I do not understand- how can the augur of a goddess be struck by the Curse of the Undead?"

Serreta smiled forlornly, although only the left corner of her mouth rose, "I am as human as any other, and the Darksign does not discriminate. Do not burden yourself with such questions though- it is urgent that your duty be elucidated.

"You are to leave Carim, covertly, and seek a cure for the Undead Curse. You shall travel alone. No borders shall restrict your journey. Should you uncover a treatment, you are to return to Carim and present it to myself and the Archbishop." she delivered these commands with an air of authority which did not suit someone of her small stature, and Alva understood why Caitha had selected her. He delivered his following statement reluctantly.

"Your holiness, may I speak frankly?"

"You may, Sir Alva."

"For countless ages scholars and errant knights alike have sought a cure for the affliction. Thus far, the only proven solution has been the linking of the First Flame, and such a deed may only be performed by one endowed with a mighty Soul, one worthy of the title of monarch. I fear that I am not he, your holiness."

At this, Serreta collapsed to her knees. Alva lurched forward, hand outstretched to catch her, but the maiden raised a hand to ward him away. He now saw that tears were running from her untainted eye.

"I send you on a fool's errand, sir, I know this. The Archbishop… he insisted upon it… you know that I would never be so self-serving as to release you upon such a doomed quest in order that I may be freed from this Curse! I should be content to relinquish my humanity and go Hollow as thousands soon will, yet he will not allow Caitha's appointed to whither like the rest."

She dropped her chime on the ground and wept, mirroring the stone goddess behind her.

"Please, Alva, do not confront the Archbishop over this matter; it would change nothing."

It was as if she glimpsed the confrontation which was already playing out in his mind. He would stride into the study in the cathedral's central tower, where the Archbishop was no doubt lounging, and… And what? That a cure would never be found? That _he_ would not aid the beloved Saint Serreta? And what then? Face expulsion from the cathedral?

"Your holiness, I cannot guarantee my success," he said solemnly, "but I give you my word that I shall offer every part of my being to curing you of the Curse. Even if I must plunge into the Abyss itself, I will not rest until I stand before you once more, remedy in hand."

"Your devotion moves me," she sniffled, wiping the last tear from her eye. From the folds of her virgin-white robe she removed a slender roll of parchment, sealed with crimson wax bearing the teardrop sigil of Caitha. "This letter acknowledges your service to myself and to the faith. It should be enough to grant you access to most domains. You may break the seal at your discretion."

Alva took the parchment from the saint's pale hand, "My thanks, your holiness, although I fear that there are many who mistrust the faith."

She smiled sadly at this, "It may be that you are right. We have many denigrators, amongst the scholars in particular. Be vigilant."

Alva allowed himself to betray a touch of confidence at this, "Your holiness, you would not have sent for me were it not for my vigilance."

Serreta laughed at this, and Alva thought it the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, "Go now, Sir Alva the Vigilant, and may the Flames guide thee. I shall pray to Caitha for her mercy, Velka for her justice and Fina for her favour, for each of us."

Alva withdrew from the courtyard. At that moment he could not have known that this would be his final exchange with Saint Serreta.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The cluster of squat buildings which comprised the barracks sat to the west of the cathedral, shouldering the full brunt of the merciless afternoon sun. Sweat formed on Alva's brow as he approached, and the thought of donning his mail in such heat did little to lighten his mood, already cast into shadow by his conversation with the Saint.

He passed the statue of Morne, the legendary knight of Carim, whose helmet mirrored the gargoyles that watched over the entrances to the cathedral. Alva passed through the long shadow cast by Carim's greatest knight, thankful for the brief respite from the oppressive sunlight.

Alva's veteran status and reputation had earned him his own private living quarters, separate from the shared housing of the infantry. Although far from luxurious, they offered privacy for which Alva was appreciative. His cramped wooden cot occupied one corner while a simple desk stood in another. An armour stand at the far side of the room displayed his standard-issue hauberk, plate, surcoat and helmet. His broadsword, immaculately polished, hung from the wall above.

Alva sat on the corner of his bed and produced the scroll Serreta had handed to him. He broke the seal, and warily examined the contents.

 _Declaration that ALVA of CARIM has been appointed by_

 _the ARCHBISHOP to seek a remedy for the AFFLICTION of the UNDEAD._

 _It is decreed that whomsoever is presented this letter shall aid sir ALVA however_

 _the honourable knight sees fit, or else incur the wrath of the cathedral of CARIM_

 _and the goddess CAITHA herself._

 _Archbishop of Carim, Deacon of the Way of White_

He scanned the impeccable hand of the Archbishop thrice before carefully rolling the parchment and placing it on the bed beside him. The Archbishop, nearly seventy years of age, was an ineffectual, bloated fool to Alva's mind. He seldom left his personal complex within the cathedral, citing poor health, substituting himself for his apostles during services. During his incumbency the influence of Lindelt had spread to Carim, and the cathedral had regressed to little more than a branch of the Way of White. No doubt the Archbishop dreaded incurring the ire of Lindelt should it become known that Caitha's dear maiden was displaying the brand of the Curse.

Alva's thoughts turned to his imminent journey. Were he to stand a chance at uncovering a cure for the Curse he would first need to amass knowledge on the terrible affliction. Of course, it was base knowledge that the burning ring of the Darksign appeared upon the flesh of man as the First Flame waned, devouring the Soul and humanity of its bearer until they were no more than a mindless, rotting Hollow, but Alva would need an understanding deeper than that. It was rumoured that the scholars of Melfia had studied the nature of the Curse, and the library of the academy must surely hide a tome or two on the subject. There could be no better location for intelligence gathering. Yet Serreta's words rang in Alva's ears: _We have many denigrators, amongst the scholars in particular._ It was well-known that Melfia's wise men had little patience for the faith- the chances of them willingly aiding his plight were slim.

 _Nevertheless,_ Alva thought, _no other nation in the world could offer the depth of knowledge held by Melfia. If I can appeal to their sense of rationality I may persuade them to assist me in my search._

With that, Alva's mind was made up. He would find a ship in Carim's port and travel south to Melfia.

Hours later, clad in his armour, broadsword at his hip, Alva left the barracks. A small pouch swung at his hip, inside of which were kept one hundred silver coins, thirty-eight gold coins, a flask of water and the Archbishop's letter. A cleric's chime, dull and rusted, hung from his belt. A cathedral attendant escorted him to the great gate, where a horse-drawn wagon awaited. An aged wagoner grinned at him from the seat of the vehicle as he climbed in- he had been informed in advance to take his passenger to the port, and his fee was already paid. Alva perched on the narrow bench of the wagon and gazed back at the sandstone spires, domes, and flying buttresses of Carim's ancient cathedral. He spied a slight figure clad in white, face obscured by a hood, standing on a balcony. The figure waved mournfully at Alva before disappearing back into the darkness of the cathedral.

The wagon lurched into motion, Alva watched as the magnificent structure which had been his home for so many years became a speck on the horizon.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

The wagon rolled languidly past rolling verdant fields and modest homesteads as the narrow dirt track lead them towards the port town of Llyne. Sheep grazed in the paddocks, and farmers toiled bent-backed over their crops. The tail-end of summer was upon Carim and the land was as green as it had ever been.

Alva watched the countryside pass by in a sort of stupor. Carim was not the land of his birth, yet he had spend the entirety of his adulthood thus far there. As a younger man he had defended the nobility as a member of the royal guard. When the forces of Lindelt made their first fateful play for Carim's sacred land he had stood on the front-lines, and although his side had lost the war in the end he had managed to earn a reputation as a merciless, fiercely honourable soldier. Momentarily, the lush countryside was replaced by the barren, ravaged no-man's land where he had made his name. He watched as his comrades met his foes with glinting steel, as the clerics raised their chimes to the sky and called forth the righteous lightning of the Lord of Light, as the healers begged for the mercy of Caitha, bent over the broken bodies of fallen soldiers. The blood of Carim and Lindelt soaked the earth that year, and although it could no longer be seen Alva knew that it was still there.

Afterwards, Alva had enlisted in the cathedral's elite corps, earning himself the rank of holy knight. For the most part it had been a time of peace- the Way of White had annexed Carim's cathedral and strict regulations had been enforced to ensure that Carim answered only to Lindelt's highest authority. Alva had spent much of his service putting down rebellions and defending the cathedral from insurrectionist groups who desired to put an end to Lindelt's influence. There were times when Alva too resented the oppressive rule of Lindelt, but he understood as well as anyone in the cathedral that any attempt to rekindle the war would end the same as it had before.

"You doin' awright back there?" Alva's reverie was shattered by a harsh voice, and he saw that it had rapidly grown dark. The sun had disappeared behind the hills and the sky had taken on a bruised purple colouration. The voice belonged to the wagoner, who had turned to look at his passenger. He flashed the knight a gap-toothed grin, rancid, yet not unkind.

"Yes, forgive me, I was lost in my memories." Alva smiled apologetically.

The wagoner cackled, "I dun' give a fig what were goin' through yer mind. We all 'ave our moments of… recollec-shun… even an old sod like meself.

"I jus' thought I'd let you know that the bay is now in sight if ye care to take a look. Should be another hour before we arrive though."

The wagoner was right. They were travelling east, which put the southern bay of Carim to their right. The moon, newly risen, hovered just above the dark waters, casting a long silver reflection. The black outlines of the largest islands comprising the Catarina archipelago jutted from the distant bay. A ship, likely mercantile, was making its way into the bay, guided by the beam of a lighthouse on a cliff at the tip of Carim's peninsula.

"Used to sail 'pon a boat like that, in me youngling days." the wagoner said in a low voice, filled with nostalgia, "every time I make this trip it gets me wishin' that I were back on the high seas."

"What stops you?" Alva enquired, oblivious to the brusqueness of his voice.

The wagoner released another croaky laugh, "I 'ave a fam'ly now. A wife, and a brat who 'as brats of 'is own. Abandoning everythin' ye care for to pursue riches and glory? A younger man's game, that is. In 'is twilight years a man should settle somewhere, make an earnest livin' and care for 'is fam'ly. You spend yer entire life walkin' roads and sailin' seas, ye'll find nothin' but misery. Seen it 'appen."

The rest of the journey passed in silence, save for the rhythmic clip-clop of the horse's hooves and the wheels rattling across the ground. When finally they arrived at the gates of Llyne the sky was black and full of stars.

"Hope yer journey is a pleasant one, sir Alva," the wagoner offered another kindly smile, "and were I you, I'd ask 'round for the cap'n of _Evlana's Arrow,_ man name of Wallace. Makes the trip round the bay to Melfia off'n. Glimpsed her in the harbour as we were comin' down."

"Thank you, for the journey and for your advice. I hope your return journey is safe." Alva bid the wagoner farewell and stepped through the gates of the port town.

Llyne, one of three port towns along the southern coast of Carim, was a cramped, sprawling mess of stone houses and narrow alleyways. The main thoroughfare lead from the gate to the harbour where the masts of carracks and schooners stood proud. Most of the town's inns and provisioners stood at the waterfront. As Alva strolled along the silent quay in search of lodgings, he passed a merchant vessel, the name _Evlana's Arrow_ writ upon its hull. The figurehead of the ship depicted a woman, cast in brass, drawing an arrow with a sleek longbow. He heard laughter and the clatter of dice from the deck as he passed. Alva made a note to return in the morning.

 _The Black Hammer_ was an unassuming, two-storey establishment, ancient grey stone just like every other building along the quay. A shingle depicting the inn's namesake creaked above the door. Business had been slow that night Alva observed as he entered- three surly mariners spoke in hushed tones around a low table while a townsman slouched with his head resting on a wooden bench, snoring fitfully. The bartender leaned against the bar, fighting to keep his eyes open. He glanced at the knight errant as he he approached, but made no other move.

"One night's board, if you would," he placed a silver coin on the bar. The barman's stubby fingers slid across the wooden surface to claim his payment.

"Up the stairs, cross the hall, fourth door on the left. Bar's closed now."

Alva thanked the man with a smile he hoped came off as friendly and let his feet carry him up the wooden stairs. As he crossed the narrow hallway he heard the barman call half-heartedly "Ye all hear me? Bar's closed." He did not hear anybody stand to leave.

He did not see the slender figure sitting in the darkened corner of the inn, cross-legged and nursing a mug of ale. She had watched him enter, through the light gauze of her violet veil, and now she watched him ascend the stairs. She waited until she heard a door swing open and then closed, before standing and drifting silently to the door.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"I'm sorry Gilleah, but I'm afraid our business here is concluded."

Carhillion massaged his aching temple and regarded the pleading, piteous man before him. This folly had gone on long enough, and Carhillion feared that any further grovelling would tip him over the edge. A quick glance to each side told him that the rest of the Fold felt much the same. Glocken, his counterpart on the other side of the crescent table, rubbed his eyes and drummed his fingers on the mahogany surface. Salda examined the crumbled parchment which bore her notes, few of which pertained to the matter which had gathered them all in the Atrium of the Fold that bright, hotter-than-average afternoon. Azal, the Forossan sage, tapped his staff on the ground rhythmically. Olenford, seated at the apex of the crescent, cleared his throat, "Gilleah, you are hereby dismissed from the Fold. You may remain in Melfia, where you may continue to teach and to research as you see fit. Any further research into these 'Dark Sorceries', as you put it, shall guarantee your permanent expulsion from the Academy."

The man known as Gilleah, distinctive in his sable robe and wave of silvery, almost transparent hair, sunk to his knees. He had done this a number of times during the afternoon's proceedings.

"I tell you I'm on the _verge_ of something!" he wept, his voice cracking has he emphasised _verge_ , "Just let me…"

"You should leave now, Gill." Salda's was soft, but her razor-sharp glare halted Gilleah's words in his throat. He stood- a grey strip of dust now adorned the knee-line of his robe- and drifted out of the circular Atrium with drooping shoulders.

"Awfully generous of you to let him stay in Melfia, Ford." Glocken drawled, one auburn eyebrow raised.

"Gilleah has a brilliant mind, as well you know," mused Olenford, fingers steepled beneath his ancient eyes, "his discoveries regarding the Golden Sorceries altered the landscape of arcane study in ways even I could not have foreseen. I hope that in time he will come to his senses."

"He's been on the brink for years now," Carhillion offered, "he discovered far more than light-manipulation during his studies of Oolacile."

Azal slouched in his chair, resting his rough-hewn wooden staff upon his knee. "Perhaps we should have given this more thought. These new Sorceries of Gilleah's could have certain… applications."

"Hold your tongue!" Salda snapped, "To allow ourselves to embrace the power of the Dark is to invite the Abyss into Melfia. I don't know how you do things in the east, but we uphold certain standards here."

"Few hundred years ago you'd have said the same about Pyromancy, yet Glocken sits here with the rest of us." Glocken shrugged at this and offered a smile which said _well, he's not wrong._

"We will speak no more of this matter today," Olenford spoke, concluding the discussion, "now we should all make the most of the few hours we have left of the day. I, for one, intend to spend my afternoon relaxing in the gardens." He looked to each of his peers in turn, smiling warmly, before they began to file out. Glocken was the first to go, followed by Salda with her notes clasped to her chest. Azal raised his grey hood as he swept through the tall oak door, in spite of the heat. Carhillion lingered, waiting as Olenford gathered his sheafs of paper and rose from his chair.

"You have more to say on this." it was not a question.

"I side with Azal in this case," Carhillion said as he left the Atrium, matching Olenford's surprisingly brisk pace, "perhaps there is some merit to Gilleah's suggestions. We could learn much from studying the Abyssal sorceries."

They crossed the courtyard, shaded by the Academy's spires. The gardens where Olenford enjoyed his afternoons lay on the eastern side of the institution, surrounded by a high stone wall.

When the wizened scholar did not respond, Carhillion continued nervously, "Of course, I am not blind to the risks- caution would be paramount- but this Academy has always prided itself on the breadth of its collective knowledge. Everything from the Soul Arts to the Pyromancies of the swamps, yet we are so afraid to study the Dark. Does that not seem strange to you, Master Olenford?"

Olenford allowed for a few moments of silence to pass between them before he replied. In those moments, Carhillion noticed for the first time just how ancient the sorcerer was, just how weary those sea-green eyes were. Olenford had been among the first sorcerers to make land in Melfia after fleeing old Olaphis. He and his peers had imparted their knowledge of Sorcery to the inhabitants of the southern land, building the foundation for the Academy, an institution which surpassed even the Dragon School of Vinheim. Olenford was the last of that original Fold. He had seen every last one of his kinsmen pass on, slowly replaced by younger, fresher mages. Glocken, the master Pyromancer. Salda with her deep understanding of Crystal Sorceries. Gilleah, fascinated by magics thought lost to time. Even Azal, an honorary inductee to the Fold, more warrior than sage. And Carhillion, who was Olenford's greatest acolyte, although the old man would never admit it aloud.

"I would be a liar if I told you that I disagree," Olenford spoke slowly, deliberately, "all my life I have sought knowledge. I desire more than anything to understand the true nature of our world, the unseen cogs which grind and spin, invisible to our human eyes." They had crossed the threshold of the garden, and now walked between beds of Catarina tulips and Carim roses.

"Yet when I look at this Academy, and the great works we have accomplished, I am filled with pride. I could not bear to see our land of Melfia obliterated," he fixed Carhillion with a pointed look, "for that is what would happen if we were to carelessly dabble in the magics of the Abyss. I have seen its power with my own eyes."

They came to a black iron bench, its back shaped in a simple net pattern. Olenford sat, head tilted back, eyes closed. He almost looked as if he were asleep. Carhillion sat beside him.

"If we allowed Gilleah to pursue his project Melfia would suffer the same fate that befell Oolacile. Do you understand?"

"Of course, Master Olenford."

"And just like that, everything we have worked for would disappear, to be rediscovered in a thousand years or more by another ambitious madman."

Silence settled upon them. Carhillion watched a hummingbird flit between the flowers. After a minute he was sure the elderly mage had fallen asleep.

"I think I'll be leaving soon." Olenford said, startling Carhillion.

"Leaving, Master? Where will you go?"

A smile appeared on Olenford's face, one that was sad but not devoid of humour. "I have no earthly clue. Of late I have dreamt of a northern land. There is Fire there, but also a great deal of darkness. Sometimes one calls to me, sometimes the other. Sometimes both at once, and I feel I will split in two. Soon enough I shall need to answer their call. But not yet. Not yet."

"This northern land- you don't think it could be…" but Carhillion did not finish his thought. Olenford had started to snore.

Gilleah swept through the Academy town like a dark storm cloud. Beads of sweat ran down his arms and thighs, swaddled in his thick black robe. Students watched him with mixed disgust and amusement, many already aware of his humiliation. He paid them no heed, staring straight ahead as he strode down the high street.

 _Cowards,_ he thought bitterly, _every last one of them. All I need is another year, maybe less._

He turned a corner. A gaggle of young men and women dispersed as he passed. He saw the way they looked at him. Of course there was the disgust, of course there was the twisted amusement, but worst of all was the pity. He had been a member of the Fold, one of the most senior scholars in Melfia. He had earned the respect of the great Olenford when he had discovered the Golden Scrolls and deciphered the ancient wisdom they held. And now, as he stood on the brink of the greatest discovery in the Academy's history, they saw fit to _dismiss_ him. Sweat rolled down his face but he hardly noticed. His wispy grey hair was plastered to his scalp.

Finally, he was home. He marched up the three steps and produced the key from his robe with a shaking hand. The key struck the brass escutcheon several times before it finally slid into the keyhole. He threw the door open, and once he was in, slammed it shut. The room was pitch black and reeked of old dust. He fumbled for his desk, found a box of sulfur matches, struck one against the side of the box, and lit a candle. He slumped onto his wooden stool and sat for a while, face buried in his hands.

Something felt wrong. He sat up and stared around the room.

In the corner of the room, in his favourite armchair, sat a woman. She was clad in a sleek purple dress with pale sleeves which flared outwards like the petals of some exotic flower. A domino mask obscured her entire face, except for her mouth, which was drawn in a slight smile. Thick black hair cascaded from the top of the mask. Gilleah leapt to his feet, toppling his stool.

"You are Gilleah, formerly of the Fold." her voice was distant, almost alien, "My name is Zullie."

Gilleah made a grab for his birch staff, which leaned against the wall close to his desk. The witch made a vague gesture with her hand- Gilleah saw that her fingernails were painted the same shade of purple as her dress- and a small black orb whirled through the air. The orb struck him in the forearm, knocking him to the ground.

Now the woman was standing. She moved towards the old sorcerer and it was as if she were gliding. Gilleah cowered on the floor, clutching at his arm and shaking.

"Thah-thah-that wuh-was Dark suh-Sorcery!" he managed to say through gritted teeth. The woman who called herself Zullie smiled.

"In a way, yes. I'm not here to hurt you, Gilleah. I actually have a proposition for you. One I think will benefit you greatly."

"Y-you broke into my huh-house and now yuh-you're making demands?" he hissed.

The witch knelt so her eyes were level with his. They were black eyes, he saw them through the slits in her mask. She raised a pale hand, inches from his quivering face. A black flame danced across her fingers, hopping merrily from one purple talon to the next and then back again. Gilleah's eyes followed the dancing ember, enthralled.

"You desire to harness the power of Dark, as they did long ago in the time of Oolacile," she said in her inhumanly beautiful voice, "I can teach you to do that."

"Y-you can?"

The black flame began to grow, until the witch held a ball of dark fire in her hand. A smoky white corona enwreathed the flame, and two white dots appeared within the blackness. To Gilleah they looked like eyes.

"You will be the most powerful sorcerer in Melfia. The Fold will not be able to withstand you. Even Olenford will be forced to accept your superiority. But you will need to do something for me. There is a man approaching Melfia by ship. His name is Alva. He will arrive in perhaps two months. His intent is to learn of the Undead Curse, so that he may find a cure for it. You must halt his search through any means you see fit." the black flame sputtered and vanished, leaving no smoke, "But he cannot die. If you remember but one part of our conversation it must be that. Do you understand?"

Gilleah nodded vigorously. Struggling to speak through a mouth flooded by saliva he managed to say: "Suh-stop h-him from learning about the cuh-Curse, d-do not let him d-d-die."

"Very good." the witch Zullie stood up tall and turned away from the pathetic wreck of a man.

"W-wait!" he cried out, and she turned back to him.

"When w-will you beh-beh-begin teaching m-me? Ab-about the d-d-Dark?"

Zullie moved over to Gilleah's fallen stool, righted it, and returned to the armchair in the corner.

"How about we start right now?"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Four days into his journey to Melfia aboard _Evlana's Arrow,_ Alva finally found his sea legs. He endured the five hour morning watch without needing to rush to the side to throw up, and he maintained his balance atop the shifting, lurching deck without once stumbling. When the watch changed at midday Alva opted to remain on forecastle deck with Larigan and Marlon. He leant on the guardrail and watched the seagulls glide and wheel in the deep blue sky. The _Arrow_ passed a sloping, densely wooded island, one of many uninhabited isles in the Catarina archipelago. From where he stood, the sun was masked by the foresail, a halo shining through the white canvas. A gust of wind filled the sails, giving the vessel a burst of speed and ruffling the plain white worker's shirt he had been provided on the day he had first boarded.

Alva felt Marlon's vast hand clamp down on his shoulder. The hirsute Forossan nodded towards a cluster of white objects on the distant Catarina mainland. "That over there is Silvercliff, where we're 'eaded. You ever been?"

"Regrettably not." Alva replied. He had visited Catarina once, many years ago, but only barely across the border, and his visit had been short.

"Well, we're only staying a night, but ye should take a look around while we're there. There's one tavern in particular that serves the finest ale you've…"

A tall, well-built young man was glaring up at Alva from the main deck. Beneath a tangle of shaggy blonde hair his eyes were narrowed into slits. Alva had seen the boy before, although they had never shared a watch. Their eyes met and lingered upon one another for several long seconds before the boy turned and resumed his duties.

Larigan had shuffled closer to Alva. A soft-spoken man from Volgen with a thin reddish goatee and a completely bald head, Larigan had been the first crew member to welcome Alva aboard.

"Cyril been givin' you eyes?" he enquired.

"Is he like that for everyone?"

Larigan shook his head, "A grouchy bastard for sure, but mostly he keeps to himself. He's from Carim, like you are. Joined the crew about five years ago by my reckoning, but I don't think I've ever seen him be friendly with anyone."

A thought began to mature in Alva's head. "He's never said anything about his past?"

Larigan scratched his chin, but it was Marlon who replied, "He once told me he couldn't stand to be in Carim any more, hates the Way of White with a passion. Seems that's quite a common attitude 'round there."

"I suppose it is." After the war had ended, and Carim had surrendered to the might of Lindelt, Alva and his comrades had been offered a choice: continue to serve the cathedral in Lindelt's newly-acquired vassal state, or rebel against the new sovereignty as outlaws. Alva had fought bitterly against Lindelt's forces, but he was no fool. He knew that no insurrection would liberate Carim. With a heavy heart he had bowed to the pontiff of the Way of White and assumed the role of a knight of the cathedral, sworn to obey the will of Lindelt. He had been called a traitor by many of his old brothers in arms. Outside of the cathedral he was viewed as a turncoat who had sold out to the enemy. The boy called Cyril looked far too young to have fought in the war, but perhaps his father or elder brother had been a soldier all those years ago.

Larigan continued to watch Alva with concern, but Marlon leant back on the guardrail and resumed his spiel, "As I was saying, this one tavern girl from a few years ago, she…"

The sky was a deep purple as the _Arrow_ drifted into port. Sailors leapt from the deck of the ship to the jetty gripping thick, sturdy mooring lines. Alva, far from an accomplished sailor, was permitted to watch the frantic activities from a distance. Silvercliff's whitewashed buildings were illuminated by soft, heady lantern light. Townsfolk strolled along the seafront, alone or in small groups, content to enjoy the temperate summer twilight. None of them were perturbed by the Undead Curse which was already taking root in the east. Alva glimpsed a pair of soldiers patrolling the boardwalk, adorned in their comically rotund suits of armour with helmets shaped like onions. They marched proudly, oblivious to the jeering of the sailors. The bravery of Catarina's knights was well known the world over, and Alva personally felt a great deal of respect for them.

With the ship safely docked and the gangplank lowered, the crew dispersed across the town, in search of food, drink or company for the night. Captain Dresden, a Volgeni merchant of some repute, made a beeline for his favourite brothel in the town. Marlon found a gambling house near the docks and settled in for a long night of Catarinan blackjack. Alva, Larigan and several other crew members paid a visit to the very taverna Marlon had recommended that afternoon. They took seats at a long table beneath a straw canopy woven with bright flowers and Larigan hailed a pretty young serving girl.

Alva, who usually avoided alcohol, permitted himself two tankards of brown ale brewed in a nearby village. His crewmates laughed companionably at his expression, lips pulled back to expose his teeth, nose wrinkled, eyes screwed up, as he first sipped the foreign beverage, but soon enough he had found that he rather enjoyed the taste.

"You still keeping yer mission a secret?" one of the sailors- a man named Laurie- asked Alva drunkenly.

"I'm afraid so. Orders from the archbishop," Alva stifled a hiccup, "Can't tell anybody 'till I get to Melfia."

Larigan clapped him on the back, perhaps harder than he had meant, "That's our man Alva. Loyal to a fault." The rest of the crew raised their tankards in unison, "To Alva!"

"Tuh-to Alva." This declaration, out of time with the rest, came from behind Alva. The rest of the crew went silent. Alva felt cold steel pressed against his neck.

"Cyril!" Larigan slammed his fist against the table, rattling the tankards, and stood up, "what the hell do you think you're doing?"

Alva turned his head very slightly, to see that it was his own blade resting against his skin. He had left it in the hold with his armour.

"Hamond Aleric!" Cyril bellowed, and when the crew fell silent he repeated, "Hamond Aleric! Do you remember that name, _Sir Alva_?"

"I'm sorry, I don't recognise that name." Alva said, although he thought he could guess who this man was and how he was related to Cyril.

"He was my father!" Cyril wailed, "He fought for Carim with you."

Larigan made a lunge for Cyril, but the belligerent youth swung Alva's blade towards him in a drunken motion. Larigan stopped, just short of being impaled on the broadsword. Others were standing now, reaching for dirks. Larigan waved the sword at them furiously.

"He used to tell me stories of Alva the Thunder Blade whenever he came home. He-he used to say that you were the buh-buh-best knight in all of Carim!"

Alva remained seated. The haze induced by the ale had subsided. He was content to let the child finish his story.

"He went off to fuh-fight Lindelt with you. He died one y-year into the war! Gave his life for our country. When we lost I thought 'it's guh-going to be fine, Alva will send them home'."

His voice rose in pitch as he brought the blade back around, returning it to its initial position at Alva's neck, " _But you let them have you!_ " You bent your knee to their p-pontiff and let them take our country! You betrayed Carim, and you betrayed my father!"

Cyril drew back Alva's blade, and Alva heard it whistling through the air. He grabbed an empty tankard and swung it around. It struck the blade and knocked it sideways, causing the boy to stumble sideways. Now Alva was standing, facing the inebriated youth who had regained his balance.

Cyril screamed and charged Alva, sword gripped in both hands. Alva backstepped, avoiding the tip of the sword. Cyril continued to lunge forward, slashing and swiping with no pattern. A sailor vaulted the table, dagger in hand, and made a grab for the youth, but he was rewarded with an elbow to the forehead which sent him stumbling back.

"Alva! Catch!" Larigan had produced his own shortsword, which he threw over Cyril's head towards Alva. Alva caught it deftly by the hilt, just in time to deflect a frenzied slash which would otherwise have been fatal.

"Cyril, do you really think you can beat me?" Alva asked, "What do you think doing so would accomplish?"

Cyril did not answer. He instead feinted right before darting to the left, raising Alva's sword in an attempted uppercut. Alva evaded and brought the shortsword down hard against his own broadsword. Cyril's grip was loose, and the blade fell from his hand. He made an attempt to reclaim the weapon, dropping to the ground, but Alva drove his boot into the assailant's chest, sending him sprawling across the tiled floor. He picked his sword up from the ground and handed the shortsword back to Larigan, who had drawn closer.

Alva stood over his would-be killer, who stared up at him with a mixture of fear and admiration.

"You'd be within your rights to kill him," Larigan said softly, "the captain would understand."

Between ragged breaths, Cyril managed to say "You'd better kill me, _sir_ , because if you don't I'll hunt you down. There are others who'd see you dead too." The sanity had left his eyes, which were wild and maniacal.

A few seconds passed in silence. Alva's crewmates stood with their weapons still drawn, watching the two men.

Finally, Alva said "You ought to leave."

A look of pure rage spread across Cyril's face. His eyes narrowed, his mouth contorted into a scowl. "Didn't you hear me? I will hunt you. You won't even make it to Melfia you turncoat bastard!"

"I mean it. I don't want to kill you, but you'd better get out of my sight."

Confused muttering spread throughout the gaggle of onlookers. Some had been waiting for bloodshed they had thought was guaranteed while others had expected Alva to exact justice on his attacker. Cyril staggered to his feet, shot Alva a hate-filled glare, and trudged away from the taverna, disappearing into the cobweb of streets which comprised Silvercliff.

Slowly the crew returned to their seats, but the good-natured chatter had died down. The ordeal with Cyril had dampened the collective mood, and many felt that they had been denied a satisfying conclusion to the brawl.

Alva returned to _Evlana's Arrow_ alone. He kept his sword next to him as he lay sleepless on his bunk.

Early the next morning, as the crew drowsily prepared the ship for launch, a cry went up amongst the mariners on the jetty. Captain Dresden silenced them with a hoarse shout.

"Does somebody want to tell me why my crew has stopped working?"

One sailor stepped forwards. In his arms was a bloodsoaked corpse. "One of ours," the sailor explained gravely, "couple of the lads found 'im dead in an alley. Knifed through the 'art and belly, looks like."

Alva pushed through the crowd to get a look. Even from a distance he knew that he was looking at the lifeless body of Cyril Aleric. A thin trail of blood ran from his lips to his chin, his glazed eyes pointed at the sun.

Nobody confessed to the murder of Cyril. By the afternoon people had stopped talking about it entirely. It stayed on Alva's mind for the rest of the voyage.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Alva dreamed of a land to the north.

He hovered above the world, a canvas of blue and green and gold. He was held in stasis, unable to turn his body or to move forwards or back. To his right, the morning sun smouldered although he could not feel its heat. This was how he knew he was looking north.

Before him was a land of ancient mountains and dense forests. He could make out the gentle curve of a coastline in the west. A thick black miasma hung low over the land, coiling around the mountains and sinking into the woodland.

A tendril of dark mist slithered towards him, and he suddenly felt warm. Only, this was not the cloying, heavy heat of the sun, nor the gentle warmth of the hearth. This warmth felt primordial, nostalgic. It felt like this warmth had always existed, in some small way, somewhere deep inside him.

Other figures floated, far off. The closest was an old man, stooped, yet full of life. He shimmered with a soft blue aura. Like Alva, he was looking north. Above the source of the miasma Alva could see another figure. Even from a distance he could see a crown atop the figure's head. A branch of swirling black fog gripped this one tightly, although he glowed with a flame which burned deep within him. There were more even farther away, but Alva could not make out any details.

The dark tendril was pulling him closer, closer to that northern land. It gripped him tighter and the warmth intensified until it felt like his body was ablaze with black flame. It snaked into his mouth and nostrils like smoke.

Alva awoke, choking and soaked in sweat. The warmth persisted.

 _Evlana's Arrow_ continued her voyage. She made port in Nordmar Harbour, a bustling market town on the north coast of Catarina. Alva helped the mariners hoist crates stuffed with fine silks and fabrics from Volgen, Carim, Lanafir and Jugo. Captain Dresden, bedecked in his finest crimson tunic, met with a particularly corpulent gentleman on the quay. Dresden cracked open one of the crates and pulled from it a sheaf of fine azure satin, which he held almost ceremoniously across the palms of his hands. The other man examined the fabric shrewdly, picked at it with his fat fingers, and beckoned a young valet who was leaning on a wooden cart. The valet scampered over, clutching a hefty bag brimming with gold coins. Dresden took the coins, the valet staggered back to the cart with the crate, and the deal was sealed with a handshake. There were many more transactions to be made that day with many more important merchants, engorged on the ludicrous lifestyles they had bought.

The air was cool, the sun partially obscured by cloud. Alva took a walk along the nearby cliffs, needing to clear his head. He brought his sword with him; since the incident in Silvercliff he was reluctant to leave it in the ship's hold. He had even resorted to sleeping beside it, one hand loosely gripping the hilt.

He walked uphill for an hour before finally cresting the cliff. The entire town was spread out below him, a cluster of white boxes dotted around the harbour. Facing east he saw the vast, untamed wilderness of old Astora, long ago abandoned. Somewhere beyond that, far beyond the horizon, lay Melfia. And in Melfia, Alva prayed, lay the secrets of the Undead Curse.

Lying in the grass at the top of the cliff, Alva felt himself dozing off. Just as his eyelids were closing he felt the warmth from his dream again, this time even more intense. He bolted to his feet, hand on the hilt of his sword, and whirled around.

A man was standing a few feet away, dressed in the brown robe of a novice Carim cleric, the hood drawn such that it cast a shadow across his face.

"Are you sir Alva?" the man enquired dourly.

"I am," Alva responded warily, "do you have a message for me?"

The man shuffled closer, "I regret to inform you that her Holiness, Saint Serreta, chosen maiden of Caitha, has succumbed to the Curse of the Undead. She has become a Hollow, with no hope of restoration."

Alva felt a pit open inside him. The world seemed to slow, and his knees grew weak. He had not even reached Melfia- could his journey really have been for nothing?

"You must be mistaken," Alva cried wildly, "Serreta has a strong will, she would never surrender to the Curse so easily!"

"I'm afraid I speak the truth," the grim messenger intoned, "The Archbishop sent me to find you, to tell you the news."

"The Archbishop sent…" this did not add up at all, "how did you find me so quickly? How did you know where I'd…"

Then Alva threw back his head and laughed. This was unbelievable!

"Do you think me a fool?"

This man was no messenger of Carim, but merely a crewmember playing a prank. Marlon, perhaps, or…

He had told no one of Saint Serreta.

Alva drew his blade, "Who are you?"

The man tilted his head upwards. Lifeless eyes gazed out from under the hood. His skin was pale and damp and some of it had peeled off, revealing the decomposing muscle underneath. A line of dried brown blood ran from his mouth. Long sandy hair spilled out from beneath the cowl.

"Not done with you yet, turncloak." the apparition cackled, baring his rotted teeth. Without hesitation, Alva swung his sword horizontally, aiming for his foe's stomach.

The blade never made contact. It whistled through the air in a complete arc. There was no Cyril. There was no one at all.

Alva heard a voice. It swept through the air, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. Upon hearing it, that black warmth flared up inside him again.

"Not so easy to scare are you, my dear." Alva spun, thinking the owner of the voice must be behind him. Still he saw nobody.

"I know about sweet Serreta, Alva." The voice was void of inflection, entirely monotone yet somehow beautiful. The warmth had become an inferno.

"Well, I suppose you should be on your way to Melfia then. In truth, I knew I wouldn't be able to dissuade you with cheap parlour tricks. Best of luck, darling."

The inferno subsided, and Alva was left standing alone at the top of the cliff, clutching his sword.

" _ALVA!"_ The cry came from further down the slope. Marlon and Larigan were jogging towards him, both panting and wheezing. When they saw him, Larigan grinned in relief and Marlon shot him a scowl.

"What on earth are you doing up here?" Larigan asked, "Nobody saw you leave! One of the lads said he saw someone up here so… why's your weapon drawn?"

"Just practicing." Alva replied.

"Well you shoulda told me!" Larigan laughed, "I could do with some practice myself."

"We're all goin' to find something to drink in town. You want to come with us?" Marlon asked, having finally recovered from the uphill jog.

"I… that would be nice."

Alva did not mention the phantom of Cyril, or the ownerless voice which had taunted him. Already he walked a thin line between respect and wariness in the eyes of the crew, and spouting such nonsense would only serve to tip him over. He returned to Nordmar with the two men he now considered friends, and spent the night drinking beneath the uncaring stars.


End file.
